


The Philosophy of Hotboxing

by irleggsy



Category: I Am Not Okay with This (TV 2020)
Genre: Not Beta Read, am i projecting? yes. will i stop? no., i am a stanley barber stan, i'm sorry this is my emotional support stoner character, teenage stoner characters with age-appropriate actors are so underrepresented
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:02:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irleggsy/pseuds/irleggsy
Summary: Ah, sobriety. Sweet, sweet sobriety.Fuck that.(Or, Stan has a little self-reflection after the homecoming dance.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	The Philosophy of Hotboxing

**Author's Note:**

> ianowt goes SO hard. let me tell you, i audibly gasped at a lot of the parts because they were so good and oh so very accurate to being a teenager. i was like. this is me!!! THIS IS ME!!!!!!!!
> 
> anyways, this was very spur-of-the-moment rushing to get the words on the page sorta thing so. take the quality of this writing at face value.

Ah, sobriety. Sweet, sweet sobriety.

_Fuck that._

Anything short of “I am so high right now I can no longer think, speak, or move” would be inappropriate, considering the circumstances. What circumstances? Well, circumstances Stanley would rather not think about right now. Even if his brain said otherwise.

Stan took another hit from his joint. It was to the point of being stubbed out, the aftertaste of the crutch bitter on his tongue, burning bright as he tossed it out the window. Still, it covered up the taste of blood. 

Blood. Why did his mouth taste like blood?

_“Get this. Sydney claims_ **_that she has_ ** _—”_

Right. Right, right right. That’s why.

Stan had pulled over the road in some random stretch of the woods _—_ which, granted, was very stupid, but he wasn't exactly thrilled about going home right now _._ (And maybe, just maybe, some irrational part of him was hoping he’d see Syd roaming around.)

(No dice.)

Stan adjusted his seat until he was laying down semi-comfortably. His poor, shitty car. It didn’t deserve to be fucked up after Ricky’s party. It didn’t deserve to have bloodstains on its faux leather seats. And it certainly did not deserve to be hotboxed on top of everything else. But fuck if he didn’t need it. He halfheartedly watched as smoke made lazy circles around his car.

Stan pulled out a spliff this time. Normally, he didn’t go for nicotine _—_ he’d phased out the cigarettes so he could replace it with weed instead _—_ but tonight? Stan savored the headie that the tobacco gave him. 

Sydney Novak. Sydney Novak! The girl on his street he’d been quietly crushing on for months. A girl who had hair like the fading sun, who only smiled at the strangest things and showed off her thigh pimples like they were the most repulsive thing in the world. A girl who listened to Bloodwitch on vinyl in his basement, who hadn’t even coughed the first time she had smoked, who said yes to go to homecoming with him and then kissed Dina not even 10 minutes later. 

Stanley Barber lost his virginity to a lesbian.

_“Get this. Sydney claims_ **_that she has_ ** _—”_

Stanley Barber lost his virginity to a _murderer._

_Sydney isn’t a murderer,_ he inwardly scolded herself. There is _no way_ she meant to fucking blow up Brad Lewis’ head vis-a-vis Dawn of the Dead. She probably just wanted him to shut up and _—_ and then…

Well.

He had noticed her powers seemed to be based on how powerful her negative emotions were, and Christ, that speech wasn’t exactly a pep talk, alright? And it wasn’t like the last couple of times, where her emotions were garbled and vague and just...radiated outwards.

No, this time she could pinpoint all of her emotions on one, physical thing. And that thing was, coincidentally, _Brad._

He remembered the moment he realized what was happening. There was this... _ringing_ in his ears, ears stuffed with cotton as he ogled Brad's slumped over corpse. At the time, he wasn’t operating at full brain capacity, but his first lucid thought was _God,_ **_please_ ** _don’t let anyone else get ahold of Syd’s diary._

It wasn't, _Oh my god Sydney killed someone with her very cool and/or fucking horrifying superpowers._ Not, _Jesus fuck, where is his head?_ Or even, _I should run too, before I get trampled by this stampede of traumatized teenagers._ It was helping _Sydney_ that he thought about. After everything, he was _still_ thinking about Sydney.

(His second lucid thought was _ew, there’s blood in my mouth._ He still isn’t sure if it’s his or Brad’s, but for the sake of his own sanity, it’s a question best left unanswered.)

He had crawled over, his baby blue slacks soaking up even more blood, and he snatched the crumpled notebook off the floor. He swore the little cat on the cover was mocking him as he scrambled to his car. He couldn't pull out of the parking lot fast enough.

And _that_ was his homecoming experience. Well, that was his hopes and dreams for his high school career crushed in a matter of 20 minutes. Wonderful.

Stan finished his spliff, snuffing it out in the ashtray in between the front seats. Eventually, he sighed. _I’m definitely not sober enough to drive home, but I’m also not high enough to willingly incur the wrath of my dad._

Stan reluctantly adjusted his seat so it was upright once again. He rolled down the windows to let the smoke escape before restarting the engine, quickly buckling up before the seatbelt warning could piss him off. He resolutely ignored the diary, even though it was burning a hole in his dashboard. Bloodwitch immediately started blasting throughout his car. He flinched. As much as he loved their debut album, it reminded him a little too much of Sydney right now. That sobered him up a bit. He punched the FM Radio button, a garbled rerun of _Prairie Home Companion_ crackling through his speakers. 

As Stan surveyed the damage to his car, he grimaced. If the front bumper had put him in hell, he was about to enter another circle. He groaned and banged his head against the steering wheel. The blood smeared all over the front seats would not please dear ol’ dad, but then again, neither would the glitter from Mercedes’ dress.

_Oh shit. **Mercedes!** I knew I was forgetting something. Hopefully, she carpooled with someone else… _

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is @irleggsywrites if you're interested in waxing lyrical about ianowt with me. thanks for reading!


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